


The Provocation Protocol

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-09
Updated: 2011-07-02
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: The government of Mekrona has asked Enterprise for help. Even Malcolm can't see a problem - until the attacks begin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Unusually for me, I've started an ensemble fic and my favourite boys are (largely) behaving themselves. Normal service will resume presently!  
>  Set somewhere around the 5th/6th year of the mission, I've taken the liberty of giving Malcolm his (long overdue) promotion.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all know Starfleet has a protocol for every eventuality, but how did they develop? As usual, it's down to the crew of Enterprise to be the guinea pigs

Captain Jonathan Archer was enjoying himself and, given the onerous nature of his position as Planet Earth's first emissary to the galaxy, that was not something which happened often. Mekrona's government made up in enthusiasm what their planet lacked in natural beauty, and no First Contact of his experience had progressed so smoothly. The people, bipedal, tailless lizards in all but name, were warp-capable, yet curiously unadventurous. No subtle questioning had been required to confirm that their technology had never been utilised beyond their own three-mooned planetary system, its existence a marvel of technical achievement over practical application. 

The Captain smothered a smile, remembering the outrage of his Chief Engineer. _What's the point buildin' a warp engine if all you're gonna do is sit around admirin' it?_

First Secretary Antrum had personally undertaken to be his guide, and more than half of Enterprise's crew was currently engaged in diplomatic glad-handing or assisting the huge archaeological excavation that had first drawn their attention to a small and (in the opinion of his Vulcan First Officer, Archer noted sourly) insignificant Minshara class world with limited mineral resources and little diplomatic significance. When T@Pol had volunteered to mind the store in orbit, he had not been inclined to dissuade her.

Having enjoyed a gargantuan lunch at the First Secretary's palatial sandstone residence Archer was grateful for the offer of a walking tour of the city, his ever-active curiosity roused by the combination of rustic mud-brick single-storey houses surrounding a central plaza of towering pink stone spires which made up the government quarter. The people, Antrum assured him, were not impoverished; they simply preferred to live in the same modest structures their ancestors had created on the site designated by the gods.

"And you hope you'll find evidence of the gods from the excavation, First Secretary?" The UT hadn't made sense of the man's initial explanation, and interrupting his monologue on the generosity of the local divinities had seemed rude. The First Secretary peered over his cork-rimmed spectacles, pushing them back onto the characteristic pronounced bump at the bridge of his nose.

"The Great Divines do not leave footprints in crude soil, Captain!" he exclaimed, fluttering his curved six-clawed hands together. Archer summoned a sheepish look.

"Of course not: I apologise, our translator took a while to adapt to the syntax of your language. What are you looking for?"

" _Signs_ , dear traveller: signs of why the Divines chose this place for their people's great journey to end."

Maybe the soil could give clues Enterprise's sensors had missed, Archer mused, because situated in an arid valley ringed with red rocks, a hundred kilometres from the closest water source and prone to famine when the underground irrigation corridors got blocked, Mekra-Divine would have given a Vulcan town planner palpitations. Pausing on the wooden viewing platform raised above the cavernous main trench on the east side of the city, Antrum waved both scaly claws toward a knot of Mekronian and human diggers consulting over what looked like a twisted chunk of discoloured gold. 

"Your gracious assistance in providing labourers for our work must bring the benevolence of the Great Divines upon your journeys," he intoned. Sighing inwardly, the Captain bowed his head and answered the blessing as Hoshi had advised.

"The blessings of the Great Divines upon Mekrona, honoured Secretary."

The small official beamed, displaying an alarming set of jewelled fangs. "Many of our citizens are alarmed by the passage of aliens through our system, Captain; ancient lore proclaims that strangers from beyond these stars will be the harbingers of fire and death across Mekrona. The generosity of your crew in furthering our great work may help us overcome the superstition of a thousand generations."

"Superstition?" Several of the native workers were eyeing Enterprise's assortment of amateur archaeologists with a scepticism that bordered on dislike and Archer was proud of his people's stoic refusal to be riled. Maybe he was finally finding out what lay behind it.

Antrum nodded vigorously, wrapping a guiding hand around his arm and steering him away toward the main path between excavation and settlement. "The Great Divines cautioned our ancestors: beware the coming of strangers beyond the three moons! The government tries to educate, but we are a simple people."

"The civilisation you've developed suggests you're a whole lot more than that." He thought his host blushed (his greenish scales darkened as a human's complexion might under compliments) before disclaiming the praise with a cry of "Unworthy!"

"If you are content that your people are well attended..."

Archer raised both hands, his smile broadening beyond diplomatic convention. "I never had any doubt about that, First Secretary. Your welcome has been overwhelmingly warm, and we sincerely appreciate it; all the more so, since it goes against generations' concern about off-worlders."

"The best antidote to fear is to face it, dear Captain. Come - allow me to show you the Jewellery Quarter; the oldest and most blessed part of our town."

*

They were approaching the gilded gates of the Secretary's residence when Jonathan Archer's day took its first turn for the worse. He didn't know what had put that terrible look of frosty displeasure onto his head of security's face, but given the pace at which Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed was crossing the tree-lined, heavily-guarded piazza toward him, he was going to find out much too damned soon.

Helplessly he glanced beyond the bristling Englishman, seeking out the reassuringly open features of the man's partner, hovering at the stout gatehouse which separated the government residences from the main town. Trip Tucker looked worried - but considering the tightly leashed anger that crackled around the love of his life, Archer mused, that was neither unexpected nor insightful.

"Captain."

"Commander." Under normal circumstances he would have used his friend's given name, uniforms notwithstanding, but this was evidently an official approach. "First Secretary, will you excuse us?"

"Of course!" Giving the stonily silent Englishman a brief bow, Antrum continued through the palace gates, hissing a word to the guards who fell to their knees at his passing

"Problem, Malcolm?" Keeping his voice low, Archer guided the younger officer by the arm into the shadow provided by the gatekeeper's stone porch. Reed's fine-cut lips pursed.

"Two of our personnel have been victims of assault, Captain. I'd call that a problem, yes."

"Assault?" Cold gooseflesh broke out beneath his sand-camouflage hot weather uniform. Reed nodded brusquely.

"Crewmen Callis and Kelly, Sir."

"Two women."

To his eternal credit Malcolm kept the patronising riposte choked down, confirming his C.O.'s statement of the bleeding obvious with another nod. "Callis reported being - I believe the correct term is _goosed_ on her way to lunch in the market square. Kelly's bottom was examined rather aggressively while she was digging and no, neither saw their attackers. There were rather a lot of people around on both occasions."

"I see." Archer chewed his lower lip. "They're not hurt?"

"Shaken, Sir, but physically - no." Reed'ss changeable grey-blue eyes had darkened with a steeliness Jonathan Archer had learned to dread, and now Trip, Kelly's department chief, was looming over his lover's shoulder, looking confused and miserable. "I've sent them both for coffee in the shutlepod, with Tanner as escort."

"Surely they don't need..."

"They're both pretty shook up by it Cap'n," Trip pointed out, resting a warning hand on the dark-haired man' tense arm. "Maybe these folks think it's all a little friendly game but if a human did somethin' like that..."

"I know." Sexual harassment was a criminal offence on most of the worlds Enterprise had visited, and it turned his stomach to think of his people being exposed to it here. "I'll protest to the First Secretary. Malcolm, if Kelly and Callis would prefer to remain on Enterprise tomorrow, they have my permission. These people aren't used to seeing females as equals..."

"That's quite clear, Sir," Reed growled. Tucker cleared his throat, theatrically nervous.

"Cap'n we all git the idea of playin' nice with folks's customs, but don't it cut both ways?" he asked plaintively. "They asked for our help; and y' know what happened to Callis and Kelly'd be called assault back home. We can't let that just _happen_!"

"No, we can't, but you have to appreciate the delicacy of what we're doing here." One man looked hurt, the other frankly hostile, but somebody had to keep a sense of proportion and Archer figured it was going to have to be him. "These people have been reared to mistrust outsiders, and to believe it's their right to treat their females like chattels."

"Doesn't give them the right to treat ours the same way - Sir."

The single beat before the respectful title completely, Trip acknowledged, changed its meaning. Not that he disagreed with his partner's point - quite the reverse - but that momentary hesitation brought it pretty damn close to insubordination.

Jonathan, he noted with relief, was willing to let it pass. "I appreciate your bringing this to my attention so promptly, Commander," he said mildly. "And I'll raise it with Anturm as a matter of urgency. Now, it's getting late. Maybe you could assemble the away teams to return to the ship? Have Callis and Kelly check in with Phlox; and draw up some proposals to improve security for female personnel down here."

"Aye, Sir." He could swear that was relief on the Brit's angular features. Trip tipped him a wink as he scuttled in the Armoury Officer's wake, and it was all Jonathan Archer could do not to laugh.

Instantly he sobered, guilt flooding him. Callis, a stern-faced, straggled-haired scientist in her mid-forties, was an unlikely target for a predatory alien's sexual curiosity (setting aside her marked preference for her own gender); Kelly, young, attractive and vivacious, would be accustomed to male attention, but hardly of this crude and aggressive nature.

Both women would be, he suspected, reluctant to assist the Mekronians further. When word spread, so would many of their sisters.

Squaring his shoulders, he approached the residence guards, just managing to make the respectful bow required to gain him access. The sooner he raised diplomatic hell with Secretary Antrum, the better from everyone's point of view.

*

"Honoured Captain, a thousand apologies!" Both clawed hands over his face, Antrum rocked on the balls of his feet, his scales the violent lime-green Archer had come to associate with excessive emotion "Your females - they were not wounded?"

"Commander Reed assures me they're not injured; just badly shaken by their experience." Which would transmute into fighting-madness on Jenny Kelly's part if he understood her department chief's character assessment right. "On Earth it's be hundreds of years since women were subject to casual manhandling of this nature. We appreciate your culture is very different, but..."

"Cultural difference does not give our males the right to offend guests," the Mekronian concluded. Quietly letting out the breath he had been holding, Archer ducked his head in assent.

"I appreciate your empathy, First Secretary."

"Please convey my personal apologise to the females concerned: and my assurances that the perpetrators will be discovered and punished. We are a peaceful people; we do not tolerate violence against our friends."

"Thank you; but don't feel obliged to hunt down the offenders too harshly." Uttering a silent prayer of thanks to the god of diplomats, Archer forced a tight smile to twist his mouth. If Malcolm or Trip heard those words...

"After all, it's a simple misunderstanding that can easily happen when different cultures interact for the first time."

His host's scales faded to something near their usual dull grey-green. "Your compassion humbles us, dear Captain. The sight of females working as men - dressing in male attire - is a novelty even I must confess to finding... disturbing. However, if we are to take our place among the other species beyond our own stars we must learn to show the same veneration of their habits you show for ours. These unpleasant incidents will not be repeated. You have my word, in the name of the Great Divines that order our society."

"If there's anything we can do to limit the anxiety our female crew cause your people..."

The Mekronian's scaly skin began to change colour again. "Dear Captain the fault is with a few insular members of our community; your females should not be constrained from their own cultural conduct by an inadvertent transgression caused by ours. I am certain the offenders meant no harm, but it is as well misunderstandings of this nature are resolved immediately and - I trust - amicably."

The tall human let out a quiet sigh. "Very amicably, First Secretary. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your understanding."

One glinting eye fixed somewhere above his head. "Your Tactical Officer appeared to be particularly disturbed..."

"Commander Reed is my head of security, First Secretary." Antrum gargled in response.

"Ah, I _see_ , he feels any misfortune to befall a crewmate as a failure on his part."

Instinctively Archer stiffened until his posture was a match for Reed's at his most punctilious. "Mister Reed could hardly protect Callis and Kelly from being manhandled," he grated, deliberately softening stance and tone as he realised how hostile he had begun to sound. "His anger was a reflection of professional and personal concern for his friends."

Subordinates and colleagues, Malcolm would probably have said, but he figured a little exaggeration was in order if it negated their host's interest in Reed's undeniable annoyance. When the elderly Mekronian nodded, murmuring a final apology for the wrong done, he decided even his by-the-book security chief would forgive the embellishment.

And it was a mighty relief when he could bow himself out of the minister's presence and dash out of town to a waiting shuttlepod.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cultural differences. Compromise. All good, as long as everyone plays by the same rules.

"If it'd help for us to wear dresses or something..." Maria Morozova, he considered, couldn't have suggested vaporisation by a Klingon disruptor with less enthusiasm. Trip just managed to contain his sigh of relief as Captain Archer shook his head.

"Thanks for the offer, but Antrum insists we shouldn't compromise our cultural norms for the sake of a few natives unwilling to move with the times," he said, visibly checking the crowded launch bay. "Kelly - Callis. You're both okay with returning to the surface?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'm taking Commander Reed's advice about avoiding crowded places alone, Sir, but it's best to get right back on the horse." Kelly shouldered her bag and hopped into Pod 2 amid a group of engineering crewmates. Archer flicked a smile to his Tactical Officer.

"Anyone who feels in any way threatened, holler," he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. "And if there are any further... incidents report them to Commander Reed or me. All clear?"

A hum of indistinct "Yessirs'" rose. Nodding to his First Officer, Archer climbed into Pod One with the rest of the senior staff, fervently hoping the instruction would prove as unnecessary as Antrum promised.

Damn. He was spending too much time with Malcolm if his natural optimism couldn't make that hope an expectation.

Still, the morning passed without incident, and as he strolled through the sunlit streets of the Jewellery Quarter in search of a suitably quiet lunch stop Jonathan Archer could feel himself beginning to relax. Enterprise crewmen acknowledged him with friendly smiles, glancing up from conversations with hosts whose clawed hands stayed firmly in the pockets of their loose tunics. Even Malcolm appeared willing to unbend a little, under Trip's gentle persuasion.

Archer smothered a smile as he passed them, seated at an outdoor table with a large empty bowl that had contained refreshing iced soup and two long-handled thin spoons between them. Hands clasped on the blue-and-white checked tablecloth, his two officers were smiling tenderly as they gazed into each other's eyes, their feelings displayed with an openness even their closest friends seldom saw. 

It was fortunate, he reflected, that the Mekronians did not simply tolerate, but actively approved of same-gender partnerships (between men at least: he'd seen no evidence the women were granted the same indulgence), because anybody seeing Trip and Malcolm together, the tall blond gently rubbing a fingertip over the dark-haired Englishman's sensually-shaped lips, would identify the nature of their bond immediately. 

Reed had been uptight since the first incident was reported, fearing the worst and quietly bristling with resentment against diplomacy's constraints. Tucker had appointed himself jollier-along-in-chief, and as so often, his efforts had borne reluctant fruit.

Archer spared them a wave as he passed, dismissing their half-hearted invitation to a seat with an alacrity that brought gratified smiles too quickly to their handsome faces. He had been concerned when the easy friendship between them had blossomed into romance - concerned and, he conceded, unsurprised. The attraction had been obvious to everyone beside the two principals, and as a friend he had been delighted when they stopped _pussy-footing around_ as Reed had put it. 

It was only as their commanding officer he dreaded a shipboard relationship imploding and shattering the efficient running of Enterprise. They still battled over power ratios and reactor shut-down drills, but even T'Pol acknowledged the heat had gone from their professional exchanges. It was the personal squabbles (Trip's natural untidiness versus Malcolm's inbred fastidiousness; pancakes with maple syrup as opposed to peanut butter) that disturbed the tranquillity of the ship's daily routine the most.

And even when they were yelling, the two men had a connection that made the more romantically-inclined of their crewmates swoon. 

Jonathan Archer was hardly a romantic man, but he understood his subordinates' fascination. He couldn't remember meeting a couple more in sync, despite their differences, than Malcolm Reed and Charles Tucker the Third.

"Damn!" All three men's communicators crackled at the same moment. "Charteris to all senior officers. I've just had my breasts groped at the entrance to the dig site."

Reed was on his feet so fast he turned the table over. "Sorry!" Tucker yelled, chasing down the street in pursuit of the smaller man after throwing a handful of coins onto his chair. "Cap'n?"

"Right behind you, Trip." His legs felt leaden and ice had formed around his vitals, but somehow Archer managed to get one foot in front of the other, brushing by the gaggle of noisy Mekronian waiters trying to right their upturned furniture. If only his brain wasn't telling him to turn around and run in the opposite direction!

He did not need this! Yes, most Mekronians were civil, and yes: Starfleet had emphasised the cardinal importance of showing respect to the new cultures he encountered. But three of his crew grabbed? Three women attacked, and their captain powerless to offer more than the meaningless reassurances of a hand-wringing politician?

He felt sick, and he wasn't sure who was going to be hardest to face: the frightened geologist, or the angry Chief Tactical Officer.

Sarah Charteris was leaning back against the huge spoil heap when Archer reached her, the vivid splash of her titian hair throwing the deathly pallor of her face into stark relief. The rotund Minister of the Divines, his silvery scales almost purple, patted vaguely at her brow, while a dozen diggers, human and Mekronian alike, huddled impotently staring. 

Trip, Archer noted with relief, had taken charge of shooing the gawkers away, while Malcolm, features schooled into an impassivity his rigid posture implied he was a long way from feeling, was gently questioning the trembling woman.

"Dear Captain!" Minister Dikarum scuttled his way with an alacrity which suggested he had already received a phase-pistol glare or two. "A thousand apologies! Our labourers have been instructed - I cannot comprehend how one of servants of the Divines could so demean the Deities as to commit this - this ungraciousness!"

"A thousand generations of tradition can be tough to set aside, Minister." He managed to control his flinch from the fat, scaly claw that gripped his wrist; even kept his tone level as he watched Reed drape a comforting arm around the ensign's heaving shoulders. "You'll inform the First Secretary what's happened?"

"It will be my painful duty, as governor of this excavation. Dear Captain, allow that I present my apologies to the female in person!"

"You okay, Ensign?" Reed fired him a glare that screamed _Honours degree in dumb questions!_ but Charteris managed a fragile smile. 

"Getting there, Sir. Just shocked."

Her uniform was intact, but for the zipper yanked a little too low for regulations. The moment his eye snagged on it, she blushed and tried to tug it upward, catching it on the bright blue fabric. "Perhaps it would be advisable to withdraw our people for the day again, Sir," Reed suggested, the words more deferential than the tone. Catching the minimal nod of his Chief Engineer, Archer sighed.

"Agreed, Commander. No, Minister - we're not walking away from our promises. You asked for our help, and we're honoured to provide it, but you understand I have to consider additional precautions."

"Indeed; and be assured by the guidance of the Great Divines we of Mekrona will redouble our efforts to see all our people better schooled! Forgive us, Female Charteris!"

She couldn't stop herself withdrawing from his outstretched hand, shrinking back, Archer noted, into Reed's protective hold. "Trip, comm. the rest of the crew. I want everybody back at the landing site as fast as possible."

"Aye, Cap'n." The blond engineer looked torn between frustration and fury; Archer didn't blame him. 

"I'll see Ensign Charteris back to the shuttle, Malcolm, if you want to start rounding up our people," he suggested. With a curt nod, the Englishman withdrew his arm. 

"Um, sirs?"

"Problem, Ethan?" Trip frowned at the loitering crewman, whose nervous glances seemed to shift from one senior officer to the next just before his eye could be caught. Novakovic cleared his throat.

"Just as I was running across to see what was happening, Sir - somebody grabbed my ass and squeezed. Hard."

"They could hardly mistake Novakovitch for a woman." Restraining himself from stating the obvious had gotten too much for Malcolm, Archer noted ruefully. "And Ensign Charteris's breasts are _not_ a subject Mekronian archaeologists can legitimately wish to study."

"No." Dikarum squeaked at the blunt words. Archer suspected his subordinate had used them intending to get a rise, and he didn't blame him. "Draw up some proposals and we'll assemble the senior staff. Minister Dikarum... we'll be in touch."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions are escalating. Who'd be a Starfleet captain!

"As I don't suppose you'll allow weapons to be carried around their sacred sites, Sir, there are limits to what we can do." Arms crossed and eyes focussed dead ahead, _Lieutenant-Commander Reed_ was in full duty mode, his slight frame held as taut as if he were facing a Suliban interrogation squad, not a briefing with sympathetic colleagues. "Clearly, no female crew member should be working alone: I recommend a visible security presence in any area where women are likely to be in frequent contact with Mekronians."

"The excavation; around the Jewellery Quarter and the government buildings." Archer ticked them off on his broad fingers. "Two officers in each location at any one time?"

"I'd recommend a presence with the shuttlepods too, Sir: we may need to withdraw from the planet again if these assaults continue. Comm links should be kept open at all times," Reed continued, accepting the suggestion with a crisp nod. "Naturally, people are going to be on high alert; we can assume they'll be looking out for their colleagues, and of course, you'll be raising the matter with again with the First Secretary..."

"Of course." There was a meeting Archer could have done without.

"I'll also schedule additional self-defence classes for any crew member who feels the need for it."

"Thanks, Malcolm." Archer pretended he hadn't noticed the slump of his Chief Engineer's shoulders at the prospect of long off-duty combat sessions occupying his man. "Hoshi, get me the First Secretary. I'll explain the measures we're taking; I don't want our response to appear aggressive."

He didn't miss the outraged flaring of English nostrils. "But I'll advise him; if these attacks continue, we'll be escalating our response. Dismissed."

*

He was, Archer would admit to his personal log alone, getting tired of Secretary Antrum's shrill apologising. Maybe he was listening to his Armoury Officer too much, but the routine expressions of sympathy and dismay sounded less sincere with repetition, and the edginess he saw on the faces of his crew around town didn't help. "Nothing reported this morning?" he asked, dipping his sandy head close to the dark blond one of his best sounding-board.

"All clear."

Trip's usually ready smile was distinctly forced. Archer huffed a sigh, catching him by the arm and leading the unresisting Southerner at a strong canter toward the dig site. "Malcolm?" he asked, swallowing the dust kicked up into his face by a passing cart.

"Comin' down after lunch; got his first unarmed defence class running about now." It often amused his old friend that the chief engineer of a starship could give such a stellar impersonation of a truculent teen but right now, Jon Archer guessed his own actions had contributed to the look, and that made it a whole lot less entertaining. "He's gonna do an afternoon patrolling down here, then take another session after dinner. You any idea how many people commed to ask for training with him?"

A swift mental check of the crew manifest later, Archer had a number. "Thirty?"

That would be every woman in the crew, bar one.

"Try seventy and you'll be a lot closer," Tucker grated, scrubbing a long hand through sweat-spiked blond hair. "Jeez, even T'Pol's asked f'r some coaching, can you believe it? Miss I-Know-Every-Vulcan-Martial-Art, askin' a human for some fighting tips!"

" _T'Pol_ asked for training?" His second-in-command wouldn't accept the suggestion she might be unnerved by the incidents of previous days, but Archer could see no other explanation. "Guess it's illogical to ignore any security precaution."

"It'd be a brave Mekronian that'd go for her butt," Tucker observed, evidently cheered by the image. "Most of the guys have asked for advice too, Cap'n, since Ethan's ass was pinched. Mal'll be training, patrollin' and sleeping for the next few days, so don't go askin' him for any advice unless you really need it. He gits real cranky when he's overworked and stressin' about his friends."

"I know." And he appreciated the Englishman's diligence, his dedication, more by the day. Malcolm had never been a misty-eyed romantic about the universe. He'd expected the worst, hostility and mistrust wherever humanity ventured. More often than not, he'd been right.

"I'm sorry, Trip." Gently he gripped his best friend's arm, trying to communicate with touch what his words could not express. _I'm sorry my adherence to diplomacy keeps your lover too busy to explore this new world with you. I'm sorry you're not wandering hand in hand with him through the marketplace right now_. "Antrum was shaken up, hearing that a male visitor had been attacked. Maybe he'll take action now."

"Yeah, that'll really make Kelly, Charteris and Callis feel better, Cap'n."

Recognising there was no humouring his friend, Archer wisely gave up. "You can take station in the Government Quarter, Commander," he said, brusquer than he'd intended. Malcolm's displeasure with his handling of affairs was hard enough to take; that Trip was siding with his partner made the sickly feeling in the pit of Archer's stomach all the harder to bear. "I've got the water polo finals just come through if you're bored tonight."

The offer was thrown out, Tucker thought, a tad too casually, and he cursed himself for wounding his already overwrought friend. "Sounds good," he accepted with a grin. "Long as I can be done before twenty-one hundred. After lettin' a bunch of un-coordinated scientists kick his butt all evening Malcolm's gonna need these talented hands 'f mine."

"Too much information, buddy." Relief washed through him, making the senior officer miss his step and stumble as he turned away. A strong hand steadied him, bright blue eyes twinkling with affectionate (and insubordinate, which Archer treasured even more) mischief.

"Sure you're safe to be left alone, Cap'n?" Trip enquired, just loud enough for a passing crewman to hear. Jonathan grinned.

"Get to your station, Commander."

"Aye, Sir." With a playful salute Tucker turned on his heel and quick-marched away. He could hear his friendâ€™s chuckle mix with that of Crewman Fisher following him back toward the town centre.

*

The merriment didn't last long. Inside an hour, two more male crew had their rear ends investigated: Rostov's left buttock would bear the mark of his Mekronian assailant's fore claw for a week in Phlox's horrified opinion. Ignoring the protests of Minister Dikarum, Archer snapped open his communicator and, in his steeliest tone, hailed Travis Mayweather on Enterprise's bridge.

"Get Commander Reed down here immediately, Ensign; and tell him to bring a consignment of phase pistols."

He could feel the gratified sighs of his shipmates from all around the vast dig site. Dikarum's muted scales lit to a fluorescent cerise hue.

"Weapons at the residence of the Great Divines! Captain I beg of you..."

"They won't be used if the servants of the Divines keep their hands off my peoples' asses, Minister." He'd have to rephrase that for his nightly report to headquarters, but it got the message across. "Archer to Commander Tucker."

"Right here, Sir." Yes, Trip had kept his comm. line open. Jonathan could picture his friend bristling with fury in the central square, frying any innocent Mekronian that happened to cross his path with his eyes alone.

"Assemble all personnel in your zone, Commander. Head to the landing ground and distribute phase pistols. Set to Stun at all times."

"Aye, Captain." The uncharacteristic pronunciation held a rebuke he could shuck off easily enough. It didn't hurt for Dikarum to report the alien weapons had a deadlier setting.

It took fifteen minutes for the newcomers to reach the dig site just beyond the town, headed by two military-professional senior officers brandishing their phase pistols like four-leaf clovers. Nothing should have gone wrong in such a short time. Not with armed reinforcements on the way.

Then Phlox yelped, like Porthos with his tail trodden on. And all Hell broke loose on the edge of the cavernous trench. 

"I'm perfectly all right, Captain," the Denobulan assured him when Malcolm had managed to free him from a gaggle of solicitous Mekronians, most of them scared to the other side of the massive excavation by a single icy look. "It was the surprise that caused me to call out; the sensation itself was rather... interesting. You won't mind if I join your self-defence class tonight, Commander?"

"If you don't come voluntarily, Doctor, I'll frogmarch you from Sickbay." It was all Malcolm could do to hold himself still, suppressing the tremors of rage he could feel working out from his core. "Two marksmen at the site, Sir; one in the Government sector and another in the Jewellery Quarter, with three more on patrol. Considering Rostov's experience, perhaps we could assign a field medic to each station as well? Mekronian claws - so I understand, Minister Dikarum, do correct me if I'm wrong - can contain a trace of venom."

"The substance is harmless to our own kind, Commander."

"With respect, Minister..." "he insult worked as well, Archer was pleased to note, on alien politicos as it did against commanding officers who displeased their security chiefs "It's not your people being assaulted. Captain?"

"Suggestion noted, Commander. Phlox, will you go collect some supplies and brief your team?"

"Immediately, Captain; no, I'm quite all right." If anything the Denobulan appeared enervated, clearly intrigued by his latest novel experience. Trip suspected he knew what the next paper to come out of Sickbay would focus on. "The sensation is quite shocking when administered by a stranger, but I think I understand why Commander Tucker..."

"I'll see you back to Enterprise, Doc," the engineer cut in before his friend could incriminate either of them any further. If Archer spotted the speaking look cast his lover's way, he was too busy being captain to call them on it.

"Malcolm, if there are any more incidents, call me," their C.O. instructed, his voice carrying harsh with anger across the giant spoil heap on the far side of the trenches. "Minister Dikarum, I'd appreciate it if you'd accompany me to the First Secretary's residence. Unless these attacks on my people are stopped, Enterprise's co-operation with the excavations will stop."

"But Captain, our people mean no harm!"

"They're causing it whatever their intentions." He considered quoting that damned saying about the road to hell; bearing in mind the devotion of his companion to the Great Divines, it was probably inappropriate.

_As Trip tells Malcolm often enough, propriety's over-rated._

Jonathan Archer felt his shoulders slump until he felt no taller than the rotund Mekronian at his side. Malcolm never believed that, either.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archer is in an invidious position. Sometimes, Trip feels like he's right there with him!

Enterprise's Chief Engineer trudged into his captain's open quarters an hour after dinner, deliberately casual in sweats and a t-shirt, his lips already parted in greeting. Hearing the urgent voice from the other side of the small room, he sealed them shut and held himself petrified, blocking the faint light from the hallway beyond.

"We've done our best to avoid antagonism, Admiral, but five of my people were attacked this afternoon, including my Chief Medical Officer," Archer was explaining in the same taut tone Malcolm used to give bad news to a superior. "Most likely Commander Reed's right; even our best marksmen won't get a shot - every assault's taken place in a crowd, and we won't fire unless we have a clear sight of the target. But we have to show we're prepared to defend ourselves."

"We've made ourselves enough enemies out there, Jonathan, and no, that's no reflection on Enterprise." Admiral Leonard, Trip realised, easing himself into the room just far enough to close the door. Jon's head jerked, a silent signal to move left, stay out of the older man's sight. "It's up to you to avoid provoking the Mekronians while protecting your crew."

One hand came up to rub through the Captain's sandy hair. "That's one helluva balance to find."

Leonard's voice softened. "I appreciate that, Jonathan, but that's why you're wearing those pips. If the situation deteriorates, you'll have Starfleet's permission to withdraw."

"I hope it won't come to that, Admiral, but I'm not sure how many more grovelling Mekronian apologies we can take." Evidently accepting it was the best he could do, the senior officer grunted a farewell before closing the channel. Archer spun his chair, not bothering to rise from his un-officer-like slouch. "Grab your beer, Trip," he invited, scrubbing a hand across his furrowed brow. "You know, every time I talk to Leonard I miss Admiral Forrest more."

"He'd be telling you the same shit and you'd hafta pretend to agree with it." Uninvited Tucker dug into the bowl of salty snacks on the coffee table, smiling his appreciation for the opened bottle already standing by. "Maybe Starfleet should send some of those guys out into space themselves for a while. Seems to me they've all been flyin' desks so long, they've forgotten what it's like out here."

"None of them know, Trip, because none of them ever got out this far." His friend's mulish response won a grin. Reaching for his own beer, Archer felt himself relaxing for the first time in a week. "Making history with every light year, remember?"

Tucker snorted around the mouth of his bottle. "Yeah, well, makin' history ain't all it's cracked up to be. You got the vid ready?"

With the flick of a switch Archer brought the large vidscreen to life, shifting to loll beside his best friend on the comfortable sofa. "What time's Malcolm due to finish?" he ventured.

"He says 2100, but - hell, you know how he is. If one dumb meteorologist isn't fully qualified to kick a Mekronian's dick right up his own asshole, Mal'll stay practising the same move all night."

"Getting pummelled in the process."

"Least Phlox won't hafta run from Sickbay." It wouldn't occur to most people that the security chief came back sore from every class he ran for the unskilled but over-eager, and Trip warmed to his best buddy all over again at the evidence of concern. "Yeah, he's there; commed right after dinner to ask what he should wear and what kit he should bring. He's still analysing the sensation of havin' his ass groped."

"I'm glad somebody found the experience worthwhile."

"You've got to hand it to Phlox: he could find a bright side to a black hole." Affection for the excitable Denobulan briefly lifted the gloom, and Trip's broad shoulders heaved in a massive chuckle. "I just hope he doesn't stand around the gym taking notes on Mal's technique tonight."

"I think he has a stronger sense of self-preservation than that. Oh, now that was a foul! What was the referee looking at, a naked woman in the crowd?"

They didn't mention Mekrona again; a relief, Tucker figured, to both of them. Enterprise was an unhappy ship, the tension in her company humming through the halls in a way he hadn't felt since the darkest hours in the Expanse and that unhappiness, he realised, seeped down from the top. 

Still, Jon had been laughing when he left, still struggling to comprehend how his team's Californian butts could have been whipped by a team from Illinois. He'd never been to Illinois but Trip had adopted their cause as his own in the hope of raising a smile, and he reached behind in the turbolift to give himself a merited, if awkward, pat on the back for succeeding. "Maybe I should try and get Malcolm into water polo," he muttered as the lift halted on B deck. Because if Johnny had been down, Mal, battered, exhausted and fidgety as Bambi encircled by lions, was likely to be miserable as hell.

*

Which, Trip admitted to himself fifteen minutes later, would have been a marginal improvement on what awaited him back in his quarters. Though his body language screamed exhaustion from the slumped shoulders to the leaden shuffle of his steps, Malcolm's uncharacteristic bout of verbal incontinence proved his mind was altogether too awake. Vulcan condescension, scientific incompetence, Mekronian deviousness and then scientific incompetence again were railed against in a display of _traditional nautical phraseology_ Trip doubted had been bettered even in the Royal Navy since Nelson's day. "A group of beached whales could grope that lot's behinds and get away with it! It's pure luck we didn't lose three-quarters of the imbeciles inside a week of leaving space dock. Christ Almighty knows who they had to sleep with to get through their mandatory combat course at the Academy!"

"It's been a while since meteorology and mineralogy have used their fighting skills." Dodging around his irate lover, Trip hurled himself onto his immaculately made bunk and lifted his arms in appeal. "You must be beat darlin: and you've worn enough holes in my carpet the last few years. C'mon over here and let Doctor Trip look at the damage, okay?"

"Stuff off!"

The words were fired with the ferocity of an old-fashioned percussion bullet. Reed stopped dead, visibly stricken by his own rudeness. "Bloody hell, Trip, I'm sorry!"

"'s okay, babe. You've had a rough day, you're allowed t' git snitty." Calmly, Tucker drew the smaller man into an unthreatening embrace, content just to hold the taut body until it relaxed against him on a shuddery sigh "And I don't mind betting you're sore in fifty separate places. You showered yet?"

"A gentleman doesn't make use of somebody else's facilities without prior permission." Gratitude as much as tiredness, Reed diagnosed, made him giddy, staggering drunkenly into the corner of Trip's desk as the other man pushed him gently toward the bathroom. "Bollocks!"

"I'm not _somebody else_ , Mal. I'm me and you can use my bathroom anytime." Still, ingrained courtesy offered an opening, and nobody had ever accused Trip Tucker of being slow to snatch at those. "Want a hand washin' your back?"

" _Just_ my back, love?" With a sultry glance over his shoulder, the Englishman sauntered into the small bathroom, shutting the door with a decisive snap on his boyfriend's filthy chortle.

*

"It's not easy for Jon, you know," Trip announced much later, when the sweat on their bodies had cooled and Malcolm had yanked a single thin cover over his head, tucked into the hollow of Trip's throat. The bruised body snuggled into his stiffened.

"I don't believe I ever suggested it was."

 _Ouch_. Only Malcolm could sound _that_ pissy with a voice still raw from the howls of two stupendous orgasms. "He was getting a patronising lecture from home when I got there before - not offending the natives an' all that shit."

"Allowing his own people to be manhandled is acceptable to Starfleet, then?" The sheet slipped and a tousled dark head popped out, sleepy eyes blinking owlishly in the faint starlight. "I know he's going to be getting it in the neck from the brass-hats, but he's our captain, for Christ's sake! His first priority is - or ought to be - to protect his own. If Leonard can't put us above the wounded feelings of the First Pen-Pusher down there, Archer should."

"Earth's first diplomat has to be a bit more diplomatic than you and me." Loyalty to Jon made the protest necessary, even if deep down Tucker agreed with his partner. Reed snorted.

"Love, a Klingon on heat would be more diplomatic than you; and I've no doubt old Fancy-Fangs down there knows exactly how I feel about his _cultural norms_."

Trip snickered, able to shrug off the glare it earned. "If looks could kill, you'd 've halved the population of Mekra-Divine solo!"

"And you'd have taken care of the rest." His limbs were leaden and his head still throbbed, but somehow Reed couldn't raise the energy to care. "I thought you were going to clobber that busybody who asked which of our females were designated our _partners in procreation_."

" _I_ thought I was gonna _clobber_ the scaly jerk." Involuntarily the arms around him tightened. Malcolm dropped a kiss against the engineer's furrowed brow.

"Cultural differences, Commander," he rapped out in his best _Captain Archer_ voice. Trip groaned.

"Don't _do_ that in bed, Malcolm, it feels like I'm committin' incest or something!" His shudder was theatrical, but the sentiment was heartfelt, and he figured Malcolm knew it from the apologetic peck bestowed on his stubbled chin. "And you've got to admit, that's one cultural difference workin' in our favour: Mekronian men being expected to take a male lover for pleasure. Remember how shocked the Hantari were about us being together? Okay, I know that wasn't just a gender thing, but still..."

"Considering we ended up being pursued to the landing ground by a crowd of sword-wielding natives baying for _impure blood_ , I'm not likely to forget it." Although Reed secretly thought he would prefer another visit to Hantari Prime to a fourth day on Mekrona. _At least I could defend the two of us._

"You can't blame yourself for what's happening down there, Mal."

"Since when did you develop bloody telepathy?"

The lack of heat in the question alarmed and thrilled Tucker in equal measure. "You're glarin' a hole through the hull," he answered equably. "And while I know you're mad Jon isn't pullin' us out of orbit already, I _also_ know you take every skinned knee to heart as something _you_ could've prevented."

"Sorry. I'm a bit of a worry wart sometimes."

Out of deference for his lover's feelings Trip bit off the inevitable teasing retort. "'s what makes you the officer you are, darlin'. You know Jon'll pull us out of here if things get worse, right?"

"No, Trip." Malcolm dragged himself up to their pillows, staring solemnly down into the wide-open features of the older man. "But _you_ believe it, and that's good enough for me. Now, can we change the subject? I've had enough of the Mekronians and their precious bloody culture to last me a dozen lifetimes!"

"Amen to that." A minor fidget brought the blond's longer frame into its accustomed spoon around the smaller man. Despite the day's strains, both were asleep in moments.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mekronians take action. It may not be entirely helpful...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History is a passion of mine. Not quite sure what it says about me that my studies include the grisliest forms of execution... the nastiness is not graphic, I hasten to add!

A large crowd had assembled on the sandy flats beyond Mekra-Divine's mud-brick western gate to press forward around Antrum and Dikarum, both resplendent in purple brocade robes as the senior officers climbed out of Pod One. "Venerable Captain, grant forgiveness in the name of the Great Divines!" the First Secretary declaimed, bowing low as they emerged coughing through the sandstorm kicked up by their landing. A reverent hum rose from the throng. "We have two wretches convicted of the great crimes against your people; grant them absolution before the act of punishment begins!"

As they were pushed together by the melee, Archer felt his neighbour's shudder as if it were his own. "Can't say I've the smallest interest in seeing a man broken on the wheel," the low British voice murmured, its distinctiveness making up what its volume lacked. 

The captain wasn't the only human stopped in his track. "You mean those things?" Trip questioned, his roaming attention caught by two crude contraptions formed as X's set high on a hastily-erected wooden platform and surrounded by a troop of stone-faced Mekronian guardsmen in their black and silver tunics. Malcolm nodded.

"I assume those two shackled fellows are our miscreants," he murmured, cocking his head toward a pair of downcast prisoners in stark grey gowns, their hands cuffed behind their backs. They didn't look, Trip considered, the type to go groping alien asses; but then, how would he know?

"What's going to happen to them?" Hoshi hadn't sounded so tremulous since they'd hit Warp 4 for the first time. With his senior colleagues offering stellar impersonations of stunned fish, it was left to Reed to provide a flat explanation.

"I assume they'll be strapped to those... devices, and as they rotate the guards will make wholehearted use of their ceremonial truncheons."

The petite Japanese gagged, valiantly fighting the urge Tucker guessed anyone who overheard must feel to bolt for the safety of the shuttlepod. Rostov, he noticed almost dispassionately had gone ashen, his round olive face touched with a greenish tinge. Even Phlox held himself stiffly, his habitually jovial expression dimmed as the prisoners were hurled face-down into the dirt at their feet. 

"First Secretary, we'd be satisfied with an apology," Archer protested when the spinning in his skull abated enough for speech. "We don't want to reinforce your people's fear of outsiders bringing trouble..."

"This is the Code of the Great Divines, noble Captain, by which we all are bound." Dikarum gave him the heebie-jeebies. Trip admitted it was irrational; the man had been ostentatiously polite ever since he'd discovered the Chief Engineer and the Armoury Officer were a couple, a lead followed by his team at the excavation site. There was just something about the way his jewel-like eyes slithered sideways when he talked to someone. 

Grandpa Tucker had sworn if a man couldn't hold his eye, he was a snake. And pondering the old man's wisdom was better than thinking about what was going to happen to the two drab Mekronian nobodies now being dragged to the raised platform.

"Those that offend the Rule of the Great Divines must die," Antrum intoned, echoed by a swell of sound from a crowd that had begun to push and shove, people lifting infants onto their shoulders for a better view of proceedings. The air of nervousness which had greeted their arrival was lost; suddenly Tucker had the feeling they'd been invited to an old-fashioned county fair with all its traditional jostling, bawdy banter and confusion. "Honoured guests, travellers from a distant world, bear witness to the terrible justice of the sacred ones! Make way! Let our friends see the fate of all who transgress against the Divines' commandment!"

Without a thought Reed seized his partner's limp arm, hanging on as if it were a lifebelt while they were tossed through the throng, thrown toward the scaffold like driftwood to the beach. The two prisoners had been strapped down, pathetic figures ringed by tall guards (tall by the planet's standards, Malcolm noted; even Hoshi would top most of them by a head) with steel-tipped truncheons raised. As the first flashed down he fixed his eyes on the rough planks of the gallows, thankful for the celebratory roar around them which drowned the crunch of brittle Mekronian bone.

He was vaguely conscious of someone giving a gentle shove; Trip, he realised groggily, carefully placing a trembling Hoshi behind them. With his free hand, Malcolm stretched back to give her a reassuring pat, winning a sniffle before her face pressed into his nape. 

He willed himself to focus on the dampness of her breath heating his neck and the slick pressure of Trip's sweaty palm pressing his, two pinpoints of humanity to anchor him against the swelling nausea of horror. The guards were setting about their victims with an alacrity which went far beyond professionalism, and even the dignitaries flanking Archer were bellowing, joining the crowd's rhythmical clapping of every blow. Malcolm didn't need to look around to know what the expressions on his crewmates' faces would be. 

Their relief when the torment ended was palpable. And everyone, he was pleased to note, had the wit to keep their eyes averted from the bloody mess on the scaffold as they began to move away. 

"You are satisfied, Captain - Commanders - that we of Mekrona, humble servants of the Divines, will act harshly against those who attack our friends?"

" _Harshly?_ " The word was torn out. The veins in his neck bulging alarmingly, Trip surged past his friend to scowl at the startled First Secretary. "That wasn't harsh; that was goddamn barbaric! Cap',n..."

"Our world banned capital punishment a long time ago." Archer thrust out a restraining hand, pulling it sharply back when he realised Reed was there before him. "Ministers, we respect your laws. You have the right to punish any Mekronian any way the Code of the Great Divines allows, but we're kind of squeamish about these things."

"These assaults against your people cannot be tolerated." There it was again, the slide of Dikarum's bright eyes away from Jon's face to a point beyond his left elbow. "Example must be made!"

"Of the guilty parties?" Malcolm murmured, altogether too bland. Antrum's heavy lower jaw dropped.

"Of course, Commander. The wretches confessed their assaults against the female Kelly and the gentleman Novakovic. Will you bow your heads with us in supplication to the Great Divines? It is custom to beg pardon for offences committed when expiation in blood has been claimed."

"May God have mercy on their souls."

The large oval eyes of their hosts flickered again. "An ancient benediction from Earth," Archer explained hastily, his small nod all the encouragement his subordinates needed to begin edging away with the rest of the crowd. "I hope you're not offended."

"Speak for yourself, Cap'n," Trip muttered, only too keen to lead the way. "We're headed for the dig site, Hosh...."

"Thanks Commander, but Travis and I are checking out the Jewellery Quarter today." He was proud of how fast she'd recovered her composure, though she kept her back resolutely to the scaffold as the boomer scooted across the dusty field to loom over her shoulder. The engineer grinned.

"Well you just keep him outta trouble, alright?" he advised kindly, ushering his three subordinates ahead from the landing ground toward the low mud brick outskirts of the city beyond. "You've gotta be able to sit comfortably when we orbit next week, Travis. What the hell!"

From the corner of his eye he caught a flash of movement; a grey-green figure arching through the air with all the elegance of a concussed shark. A flash of blue Starfleet uniform was clearly visible launching itself at the motionless figure on the floor. "Sonofabitch!" Tucker hollered.

"Morozova!" The wavy blonde ponytail was unmistakable at any distance. Elbows akimbo Reed forced his way through the mob, clearing a track twice his width as the onlookers dove for cover. His subordinate, her boot's low heel swallowed in Mekronian belly fat, almost managed to hit Attention

"Call off your female!" the prone figure squeaked, helplessly clawing the Russian's taut calf. "No harm was intended, gentlemen I beg you - call her off!"

"Man, you're either crazy or just desperate t' git laid," Trip drawled, winning guilty snickers from the few petrified Enterprise crew nearby. His lover rolled his eyes.

"Let him up, Mashka." The affectionate nickname achieved what a command tone might not; a rueful grin and resigned obedience, though Malcolm noted the steely grip his friend took on her assailant's arm the second he was upright. "Everything's under control, Sir," he added, conscious of Archer and the dignitaries, both huffing and luminescent with emotion, clattering onto the scene. "And you can count yourself lucky to get nothing worse than a winding. Crewman Morozova is an expert in half a dozen fighting styles. Had she chosen to, she could've snapped your spine in three places with a single move."

"Female Morozova - gentlemen! I cannot apologise enough, let us punish this miscreant as he deserves!"

"I think there have been enough punishments, First Secretary." Even the furious victim didn't argue with her captain, the colour slowly fading from her finely-carved cheekbones. "And my crewman's demonstration, I hope, is a deterrent in itself."

"More than their crunchin' every bone in those poor bastards carcasses seems to've been," Trip growled, taking the opportunity to swipe the shrivelling Mekronian on the pretext of dusting down his dark brown tunic. "You okay, Maria?"

"Yes, Sir." The reassurance was aimed at her direct boss, and its effect was immediate. Malcolm relaxed visibly, one fine dark brow arched in silent query. The slim blonde shrugged.

"I felt him coming up behind," she explained, loud enough for the dispersing crowd to hear. "As soon as his claw went in..."

"You'd better let me check the wound, Crewman." Phlox bustled up, giving a wide berth to a gaggle of watchful native males. "Perhaps in the privacy of the shuttlepod? However effective your defensive technique, there's still a small tear in your uniform."

"Shit!" The English epithet was followed, _sotto voce_ , by a Russian one of even greater ferocity. Twisting with the suppleness only an expert practitioner of yoga could manage, Morozova scowled at her torn jumpsuit. "Maybe I'm not as quick as I thought."

"You've still reacted quicker to a threat than anyone else so far." Malcolm gave her a friendly push toward the hovering physician. "Get the scratch checked out, Mashka. Captain, with your permission I'll instruct all personnel to remain on high alert. It seems this morning's bloodletting lacked something in _deterrent effect._ "

"I doubt they'll need telling, Commander." With a last smug smile for his injured crewman, Archer allowed himself to be led away. A hiss from Antrum which (possibly fortunately, the Captain considered) the UT failed to translate dispersed the remaining spectators, leaving the Enterprise officers alone.

"She's good," Trip approved, jabbing a long finger Morozova's way. Malcolm shrugged.

"Think she'd be on my team if she wasn't?" he enquired mildly. "Watch yourselves, Travis - Hoshi. I've got a bad feeling about this."

"Like that's a surprise, Mister Optimism!" Chortling at his own wit, the young boomer steered Hoshi down the main street into the centre of Mekra-Divine, leaving Trip Tucker to gaze, sun-kissed brow appealingly creased, into the steely eyes of his boyfriend. 

"What's on your mind?" he asked brusquely. Reed shrugged.

"As I said; gut instinct. Something's wrong, Trip."

"No kidding," the Southerner returned sourly, using his shoulder to steer his companion into motion. "You mean our people bein' attacked, or these weirdoes beating their own to death for a show?"

"I mean, somebody risking his life to grope Mashka's arse within ten minutes of that." Deadly serious, Malcolm allowed himself to be guided, his mind still clicking over the morning's events. "It doesn't add up."

"When does anything out here ever make sense to us?" Cold crept through his innards, insidious and inescapable. "C'mon, we're on patrol all morning aren't we? I'm tellin' you, Malcolm - one more incident today and Johnny'll pull us all out. He's as sick of this place as you are."

"I rather doubt that." Still, there was a glimmer of amusement in the smaller man's eyes, and Trip let out the breath he'd been holding. Malcolm wasn't convinced, but he wasn't arguing.

That was, at least, a promising start.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has its limits - even the patience of Saint Jonathan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sentences in italics = thoughts.

By mid-afternoon he'd had to admit (several times, each one more sullenly) to being wrong. Three more uninvited attempts had been made to examine the human anatomy, and Captain Archer had bitten his tongue. Then a second Mekronian male had earned a demonstration of Starfleet combat readiness, and no apology had been offered from Elizabeth Cutler in the aftermath as she strapped up her snivelling assailant's twisted arm. Standing with his partner beneath a canvas screen at the edge of the main excavation area, Trip was relieved to see the small knot of human diggers working unmolested, an armed security officer patrolling their area of operation. "Funny kinda first contact where we've got to be kept apart," he muttered.

"I'm starting to think it's the safest kind," Malcolm responded drily, dashing a bead of perspiration from the end of his straight nose. The communicators in their pockets crackled simultaneously into life. "Oh bollocks, what _now_?"

"Mayweather to all senior officers. We have an incident in the Jewellery Quarter, second alley from the north corner of the square. Captain Archer, Doctor, Commander Reed, please report immediately."

Trip didn't need an invite. Yelling to the remaining personnel to watch their backs, he took off at full speed after his lover, breathlessly cursing the fact his longer legs never seemed to cover the ground fast enough to keep up. "Cap'n, what's up?" he hollered across the small square with its mud-brick, single-storey structures and countless meandering little alleyways. From the mouth of one such track at the northern edge of the square, Jonathan Archer glared at him.

"Commander Tucker, instruct all personnel to head for the shuttlepods," he snapped. "Commander Reed, I want Security covering every step of the route; anyone who needs a friend to get across a Mekronian-occupied area - send a qualified marksman, and I don't care what setting he chooses."

"Sir?"

This was a Jonathan Archer Reed didn't know; even the occasionally irrational man of the Expanse had never been this coldly unrecognisable. "We're pulling out."

Trip, he noticed, wasn't quite subtle enough to hold back an exhalation of relief. "Mind if I ask why, Cap'n?"

Archer stepped aside. "Hoshi!"

Bent double over Travis's strong arm, the pretty Japanese raised an ashen face to his cry. "I'm okay. Just shaken," she rasped. Tucker snorted.

"Yeah, and I'm about to be posted ambassador t' Vulcan. What happened?"

"We were just walking 'round the edge of the square Commander." The boomer bit his lip hard enough to cut, absently sweeping the resultant drop of blood away with his tongue. "Hell, I even had hold of her arm! I thought keeping her on the inside was the right thing to do, then a hand shot out of the alley and..."

"Two Mekronians knocked me down and grabbed my breasts."

"Did anyone..."

"I screamed and before Travis could react, they'd run away." She was shaking violently, the terror of a moment's captivity returned in full force. Helplessly, she plucked at her jumpsuit. "They broke my zipper."

"It'll mend." Gently Reed drew her hand away from the wrenched fastener, giving it a tender squeeze in contrast with his pragmatic tone. "Captain, if you'll see Hoshi back to the landing ground..."

Archer nodded, helpless to stop a fond grin over the Englishman's shoulder at the alacrity with which the man went into action, snapping out instruction over the comm. as he strode away. "Trip, Travis, go lend a hand," he advised, one arm shooting out to steady her as Hoshi wobbled upright. "As soon as we're all clear, I'll tell the Mekronians they'll be finishing the excavation on their own."

"'Bout time." With a last worried look at the traumatized woman, Trip started off across the square. "Everybody converging here to head back together?"

"Seems sensible." There was nothing of the lover in Reed's crisp response: nothing of the irate friend either, which Trip found more surprising. "If you'll cover the eastern approach, Commander - Ensign, take the west. Tanner! Fisher! Cover the approach from the dig site. Rostov and McDermott, stand by to escort parties to the shuttles."

"Aye sir." Never mind Captain Archer; the crew couldn't have jumped to his even commands better if they'd been issued by a whole phalanx of medal-decked admirals. It took less than ten minutes to round up forty humans and one Denobulan, the women surrounded by men and the whole Security staff on the flanks, and march them out of town, past a scaffold stained brown with dried blood, to a pair of shuttles already fired up and ready to go.

"Y' alright there, Hosh?" Without so much as a _by-your-leave_ Tucker squeezed past the controls to squat beside her, amiably nudging a scowling Mayweather clear with his knee. 

"I'll be okay." The rank smell of her breath proved she'd thrown up, but he snuggled closer regardless, transferring what heat he could into her frozen form. "I'm sorry. I'm being _a wuss_ again."

"No you're not." Archer didn't glance over his shoulder as he manipulated their craft through Mekrona's atmosphere. "And if anyone should be sorry, Hoshi, it's me. We had enough warnings; I should've pulled us out this morning. In fact, I should've done it after the first day."

_Thank God shuttlepods don't come with rear-view mirrors_ , Trip thought, tightening his arm around Hoshi's shoulders. The look Malcolm was giving the back of Johnny's neck would have curdled Chef's best long-life resequenced semi-skimmed. 

It wasn't until Hoshi nudged him he realised his own expression probably matched it. He was definitely spending too much time with that spiky little Limey bastard.

_Yeah, like 24/7. And how can it be too much?_

*

The senior staff sat ramrod-straight around him, small heaps of grit piling around their stations proof of the rush back to their posts as his icy voice cut through a pitiful wail over the comm. "I'm not prepared to expose my people to an increasing risk of violence, First Secretary," Archer explained, slicing through the Mekronian's shrill squeal with all the efficiency of Trip'[s best laser cutter. "There have been eight attacks since this morning's executions and my Communications Officer was physically dragged from a public area to be groped in a dark alley. You've tried to stop the attacks, and failed. That leaves it to me to protect my people."

"But Captain, the only injuries have been to sons of Mekrona - the man struck by the female Cutler suffered a broken arm!"

"Which Liz treated herself," Trip cut in loudly. Archer shot him a pleading look.

"And the male Kralas, thrown by your female named Morozova. I beseech you, Captain in the name of the Great Divines - do not withdraw your friendship from us before the commitments we agreed have been fulfilled!"

"Our _agreement_ was that my people would work unmolested." When that frozen note entered his C.O.'s voice even Malcolm shivered. Antrum wailed again.

Hoshi wrenched out her earpiece. 

"But dear Captain, simply because the female Sato is intimate with you..."

T'Pol's eyebrow almost leapt into her hairline. "It's a quirk of the UT," Hoshi sputtered, embarrassment restoring livid colour to her cheeks. "He means a member of the senior staff."

"That better be what he means!"

"Honoured Captain, have I offended..."

"We'd phrase it a little differently, First Secretary, but I take the point." Tucker suspected it hit way too close to home, and the alien official wouldn't be alone in attributing their pullout to an Archer protégé being harmed. "But it doesn't change the fact that, in spite of your promises, my people are not safe on your world. My mission may be to establish good relations with other species, but I won't risk the ass of a single human because some of that species are frightened of strangers."

"I must accept your decision of course, Captain, but please - can we discuss the future contact between our peoples directly? If you would prefer not to lay foot against the soil of the Great Divines, I am willing to journey to Enterprise...."

The squawks of a whole battalion of Mekronian officials washed over the bridge. Archer winced.

Hoshi assaulted the volume control. Travis spat out the breath he'd been holding.

"That won't be necessary, First Secretary, and we don't want to alarm your people any more than we already have." A glance around showed Jon Archer his colleagues might disagree with that, but he ploughed on regardless. "But you won't object to my bringing an armed officer to the surface?"

"Whatever protection you feel necessary, dear Captain; and a detachment of my personal security will await your shuttle."

"Travis, prep a shuttlepod. Malcolm, have one of your team meet me in Launch Bay One in ten minutes. The sooner we can settle this face-to-face, First Secretary, the better."

"The blessings of the Great Divines guard you, excellent Captain." 

Hoshi turned with an apologetic half-shrug. "The comm's been cut from their end, Sir."

"Thank God for that. T'Pol, you have the bridge."

"Captain..."

Selective deafness, Trip decided, could surely afflict two people at once. Ignoring the glares he got from the Science and Tactical stations, he darted after his friend, stumbling into the turbolift an instant before it closed. "Jon, at least take a full security team down there!"

"Buddy, you've been with Malcolm too long." Archer clapped him on the shoulder, his hand resting heavy as the lift swooshed into life. "I'm meeting the boss in his own office, and his authority's sanctioned by the gods. I'll be out of there in an hour. You joining us for dinner tonight? Steak, potatoes and green salad."

"Sounds good, but I don't trust Antrum."

Bright green eyes crinkled at the corners as sturdy brown fingers dug hard into his shoulder. "Neither do I, but he's shown no interest in my ass so far! See you for dinner?"

"Yeah, great." He'd planned to eat with Malcolm and Travis, the two younger men having appointed themselves Hoshi's protectors-in-chief, but if the promise of livelier conversation than their First Officer could bring to the table encouraged his friend to get back aboard, Trip was willing to make the sacrifice. "Just watch your back down there, you hear?"

"Always." Archer's tone softened, his hand sliding down to grasp his old friend's bicep. "I'll have backup, and Antrum's too scared of retribution from the Divines to try anything. Tell Malcolm I won't make you sit 'til your plate's cleaned! Ensign Downes - Crewman Macintosh. Ready to go?"

"Aye, Sir."

In the face of two expectant subordinates, Tucker figured there was nothing he could do but vault up the ladder to the control room and release the launch bay doors. He stayed long after the pod had disappeared below the planet's atmosphere, absently gnawing his bottom lip.

_Something's wrong._

He'd tried to ignore the lingering prickle of unease he'd felt since Malcolm had said that, and now he had to admit, he'd failed. "Dammit, Jon, even you should know better by now than to go gallivantin' without a full security team!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting. It's the worst part of the job, and sometimes even a lover's touch can't make it any easier.

He didn't start twitching until an hour was up. Then he didn't bother asking his acting C.O.'s permission before opening the comm. "Tucker t' Ensign Downes. Any word from the Cap'n?"

"None, Sir."The young man's voice was shriller than he remembered. "I've tried calling Macintosh, but I can't get through. Should I investigate?"

"No." T'Pol would deny it, but he knew she was glaring. And by the way everyone else was carefully not looking at her, they knew it too. "Remain with the shuttle. Ensign, hail the captain."

From the corner of his eye he noticed Malcolm's lips pulling into a line so tight they became almost invisible. If he'd vaulted the console and yelled _"What good will that do, you daft cow?"_ into her face, his disapproval couldn't have been more obvious.

"No response," Hoshi informed them needlessly. Trip swung to challenge the woman in Archer's chair direct.

"We should send a team down."

"The captain has tried to avoid provocation, Commander. He wouldn't appreciate your protective instincts."

"Um, Commander T'Pol? I'm more than willing to go ask around."

"Stay where you are Ensign." Enough of his exasperation with their posturing leaked through, Reed noticed with satisfaction to bring both immediate superiors to their senses. "Your bum's safe while it's on a seat; I'd recommend keeping it that way."

"Yessir." The younger man sounded amused, and Travis's shoulders heaved with effort of containing a guffaw. Tucker's mouth twitched. Even T'Pol looked almost approving.

"We should wait for the captain's instructions. He'll call us if he needs our help. Enterprise out."

"I'm needed in Engineering." Without awaiting her dismissal, Trip stalked for the lift, lifting his chin against the compassion in his partner's glance. He had nothing to do but push buttons on a PADD, and Malcolm knew it. 

He probably also knew, Tucker mused, that if he stayed on the bridge much longer, he was likely to say something he was supposed to regret. _Hell, there are times I remember what got me into bed with that damn Vulcan; she pisses me off more than anyone I've ever met, 'cepting Malcolm himself_.

*

"I'm telling you, T'Pol, the cap'n wouldn't stay for dinner without informin' us!" His shredded steak wove like ribbons through a sickly mess of green-stained potatoes which Jon's unobtrusive steward gulped to behold, probably imagining how Chef would react to the wanton wastage. "Have you ever known Jon Archer abandon a crewman without his dinner?"

"Ensign Downes will find protein packs in the shuttlepod's hold." Her fingers tightened around the knife handle; he suspected if the ancient Vulcan temper weren't so perfectly repressed the implement would be sticking out of his neck pretty soon. "It is - unusual, but Captain Archer is impulsive. He's quite capable of overlooking the passage of time."

Both blond eyebrows disappeared into the roots of his hair. "You don't believe that."

"No." She laid down her cutlery and looked him dead in the eye for the first time all day. "I don't. But we can't launch an assault against the First Secretary's residence on _gut instinct_. It might place the Captain in danger."

"What if he's in danger already?"

"I don't believe the Mekronians would harm him." They were talking in circles, and Tucker knew she was no less pissed about it than he. "And until we have evidence to the contrary - or a direct instruction from the Captain - we can't be seen to take rash action. Will you stay for dessert?"

"Figure I've wasted enough of Chef's ingredients for one night, if you'll excuse me."

He didn't wait for her acquiescent nod. Fruitlessly scanning the mess hall for a glimpse of his partner, Trip stalked through the strangely quiet Alpha Shift diners and, on instinct, turned left when the turbolift hit B deck, away from his cabin.

He was rewarded by the unusual sight of an open door. "Didn't think you'd sit still for long, love," Reed announced, setting aside the book he'd been pretending to read for the last ten minutes. "Moddom still being all non-interventionist, is she?"

"Yeah." He couldn't help it; the mere sight of his lover stretched out over an impeccably made bed dissolved the tension cramping every muscle. Like a rag doll, Trip threw himself down into a welcoming embrace, the pent-up fury leaving him in a lusty exhale. "She knows somethins wrong, but because there's no logic behind it, she won't do a damn thing."

"Vulcans never _do_ anything when sitting on their hands and looking superior's an option." Malcolm was fidgety, the small crease between his eyebrows visible despite the intimacy of their position. Trip huffed.

"How long do we sit and wait, Mal? Heck, they could be torturin' Johnny for information about Earth for all we know..."

"Or Dikarum could be boring him silly with more bits of dog-eared pot from the dig - which probably counts as torture under the terms of the British Government's Humane Treatment of Prisoners Act of 2042..."

"Malcolm!"

"Sorry." The apology was accompanied by an absent-minded peck on the nose. "I'm all of a dither. Honestly, I'd sooner be blowing the Government Quarter to pottery-shard pieces and picking through the remnants by hand than just _sitting_ here."

"Uh, technically I think we're lying here. Ow!"

"Don't get clever with your weapons officer, Commander."

"Wouldn't dare, Commander."

It was, Tucker considered, the kind of tender exchange they'd shared a thousand times before: wrapped in each other's arms, warm breath mingling in the small gap between their mouths, a few moments' playful flirting that led invariably to something more. Yet this time...

"It's not gonna happen, is it?"

"No." On a frustrated groan, Reed dragged himself free and stalked to perch bolt upright on the edge of his desk chair. "God knows I'd like to Trip, but..."

"Kinda hoped I'd just fall into you and forget everything." Damn, he was whining, which wouldn't make him more appealing to his momma, still less Malcolm. The Englishman shrugged.

"I was hoping for something along that line myself, but I've got ants in my pants: can't settle," he added hastily by way of explanation. Pulling himself upright, Trip started to pace the small cabin.

"Likewise. Dammit! Maybe I should go back to my quarters."

"If you're planning to wear out the carpet, that's probably a good idea." Reed hit a key, bringing a colourful diagnostic of the nebula they'd passed on their way to Mekrona onto the screen. He stared at it for a minute, tongue idly tracing the firm line of his lips. Then, with an exasperated hiss, switched it off.

"Can't see for bloody looking. Will you _please_ sit down!"

"Ants in mah pants." The blond kicked absently at the bulkhead. "You want me to leave?"

"No!"

"'s okay babe, you don't scare me off bein' snippy." It broke his heart to see the fear flash through the younger man's eyes in those rare moments he really thought he'd offended his lover. As if Malcolm thought their relationship so vulnerable, even after two blissful years. As if he still couldn't - wouldn't - believe Trip Tucker actually loved him.

He opened his arms, his tentative smile widening at the alacrity with which his partner accepted the invitation. Cautious, he steered them back to the bunk and eased down, coming to rest with Reed's dark head pillowed cosily on his shoulder. "Might as well git comfy while we wait," he drawled.

"Mmmm." His mind might be spinning through a dozen scenarios, each bleaker than the last, but his confidence in facing them was bolstered by the solid warmth around him. "Love you, Mistah Tuckah."

"Love you too, darlin'." The words didn't come unprompted as often as Tucker would have liked, but when they did, they were heartfelt. Letting his eyelids drift down he concentrated on the sense of peace holding Malcolm brought, raising it up as a barrier to keep his fear for Jon at bay.

Reed shifted cautiously, conscious of the tension seeping from his companion's muscular limbs. Aware that his hyper-active imagination, that most unwelcome trait in a security man, would not allow an equal abandonment to sleep, he turned instead to his inbred mental discipline, separating each strand of his worries and methodically weaving a discernable pattern. He was so engrossed in the exercise that the tinny blare of alarm across the comm. hit Trip's unconscious mind faster.

"All senior officers report to your stations. Security to Launch Bay One."

Reed was tossed bodily off the bed in his lover's struggle upright. "On our way," Tucker hollered, not bothering to smooth his sleep-spiked hair on his sprint to the door. "Jeez Jon, what mess've you gotten into this time? I knew he shoulda taken a full team!â€

"He does it to annoy us," Malcolm growled, overtaking the longer-legged engineer as they rounded the bend to the lift. Trip snorted.

"Well, it's worked. What's happening?"

The question echoed like an ancient pistol's report around the silent bridge. "We've detected weapons fire in the First Secretary's compound, Commander."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of things begin to make sense. And Malcolm gets the last word.

For the first time since her breakdown in the Expanse Reed was certain he saw genuine emotion flash over the Vulcan's delicate features. "We can't get a response from the Captain, or his hosts," she stated, her knuckles standing out prominently on the hand rested on Archer's chair. "Commander Reed, assemble an away team: maximum armament. Ensign Mayweather, take us into transporter range. Hoshi...

"They're jamming our signal." Hoshi spun from the console, her glossed lips pulled tight. "I'm trying to locate the source of the interference. It's within the compound."

"No evidence of weapons being used beyond it, Commander." Having smoothly elbowed his relief aside, Reed had full command of the tactical console, his fingers flying across the cool surface. "The Captain..."

"Two human biosigns, widely separated, inside the compound," T'Pol confirmed flatly. "Commander Reed, avoid Mekronian casualties if possible."

"Understood." Reflexively he squared his shoulders, abandoning his post to Ensign Howell and registering without conscious effort that Tanner must be waiting with his team. The pistol wasn't enough; maximum armament meant phase rifles. He'd have to work on portable phase cannons when he got a quiet few hours.

Something of the grim humour must have showed on his face; Trip shot him a sceptical look before stomping ahead to the lift, visibly determined to operate the transporter himself. 

Neither man was surprised to find three professionally blank giants already waitingby the pad. Tanner thrust the necessary rifle his boss's way, not even lifting an eyebrow when the smaller man shouldered it, refusing to abandon his trusty pistol. 

"You go careful down there," Tucker barked, keeping it an order. Reed's teeth bared in a feral grin.

"Aye, Sir. Reed to Bridge! Wherever you feel's best, Commander."

"The interior of the compound seems secure." T'Pol sounded, whether she liked it or not, frankly uncertain. "We'll remain within transporter range."

"You bet we will." At his lover's nod Tucker activated the transporter, his open gaze holding Reed's until the Englishman faded away.

*

Birdsong. Incongruous as it was, the sound was the first thing to register with Reed as the transporter released him in the shade of a columned oasis-style courtyard deep inside the compound and he dropped into a combat crouch. "Maybe they're planning to crap on our heads," he growled, a single hand gesture sufficient instruction to his team of three. "Biosigns?"

"One human twenty metres east, Sir." Tanner didn't glance up from his scanner, his nose twitching like a bloodhound's as he tracked the blip on the screen. "Four Mekronians in close proximity. No sign of weapons fire. In fact..."

Reed had spotted it already, but patiently he allowed his subordinate a moment of glory. "Sir, there's no weapons fire coming into the compound at all; it's all on the perimeter, mostly directed out..."

No dousing with cold water had ever shocked a system more. Lips tightened into a near-invisible line, Reed nodded sharply at his team. "Provocation," he stated blankly, wanting to shake comprehension into their thick heads. "Weapons to stun; fire only in self-defence. If they want to tease a reaction out of us, they're going to be disappointed. Understood?"

"Aye, Sir." Mueller was a bright one, but he there were times he despaired of young Crewman Dowler.

The man had brute force to compensate his occasional lack of brain, and in breaking through two solid wooden doors between the cloister area and the first human biosign he made exemplary use of it. His bulk, the smaller officer noted with a trace of petulance, also helped cow the four unarmed Mekronians standing guard around their unconscious shipmate into surrendering before a rifle could be cocked.

Crewman Macintosh lay across a bare metal bench, his head lolling off the end. Blood smeared his upper lip, and even Mueller flinched at the awkward angle of the nasal bone, giving his own oft-broken hooter a surreptitious rub. "Enterprise," Malcolm snapped into his communicator, one eye on the man's cowering captors. "Stand by to transport Macintosh and Mueller immediately, and have Phlox standing by. Tanner, Dowler - this way."

He caught the shimmer of the transporter beam enveloping the two men from the corner of his eye as he burst through the door, heading in the direction of the sporadic whine of disruptor fire, like a swarm of irate mosquitoes, at the edge of the compound. Not needing to check the position of his two colleagues, he darted forward, rifle raised, keeping his back against the hallway wall. "The gatehouse," he hissed over his shoulder. Dowler nodded.

"It's the Captain," he agreed, whistling the words through his teeth. "There's shooting going on the floor above."

"Random noise." The patterns of sound didn't work for a fire fight; Reed suspected the Mekronians had been at peace in their hermetically sealed bubble for so long they'd lost the knack of making an action sound good. "Stay on your guard."

After nearly six years he didn't need to say that. Inwardly cursing the anxiety that tightened his guts and loosened his tongue, Malcolm led his party into the gatehouse's shadow, dropping its single guard with an efficient right hook. Dowler's brows shot through his hairline.

Reed shrugged, dodging through the open doorway and right into the face of a second club-carrying guard.

"'scuse me," he chirped, swatting the startled Mekronian right into the arms of the pursuing Tanner. Rifles raised, the three men barged into the stuffy and overcrowded porter's chamber and though he spied Archer immediately, sitting stiffly on a high-backed chair with his bound wrists in his lap and surrounded by a posse of Mekronian officials with hands on heads, Reed kept his attention on the area of threat. "Don't move!"

"Do you intend to slaughter the servants of the Great Divines, Commander?" At the other side of the chamber among a group of gun-wielding heavies, a weapon gripped between his claws, Antrum let the tip of his forked tongue slip out, scales that glowed neon the only external signal of agitation. Reed's mouth curved up into an icy smile.

"Why would we play into your hands now?" he enquired. Only Archer caught the minimal sideways eye movement that sent Tanner and Dowler fanning out from behind their chief's shoulders, two huge men demonstrating the silent skills of cat-burglars. 

It probably helped, the Captain conceded, that Reed's coolly controlled monologue was keeping every Mekronian eye firmly on him.

"There is such a thing as overplaying your hand, you know; all those little niggling provocations, increasing every day, looking for the limits of human tolerance... reverence for the Great Divines commands hospitality toward strangers; your penal code inflicts draconian punishments for transgression, and yet the word of the First Secretary was flouted with increasing openness. Really, gentlemen; how dense do you think we are?"

Jonathan Archer was thankful for the ropes holding him stiffly upright as his body tried to shrivel into a ball. _If he'd figured it out so soon, Malcolm would never have let me fly right into a trap. Would he?_

"Of course," the Englishman concluded mildly as the mouth of Tanner's rifle connected with the First Secretary's squat neck, "We do reserve the right to give you the odd scare by way of retaliation. Now, would one of you gentlemen be kind enough to untie Captain Archer, so we can all be on our way?"

From the farther side of the room, tracked by Dowler's weapon, the Minister of the Divines shuffled forward, claws lifted high above his glistening head. "If you will allow me to lower my hands," he whimpered, blinking rapidly from one blank human face to the next. Reed nodded.

"You all right, Captain?" he asked quietly, quick to offer a steadying arm as the older man staggered upright, his feet left numb and unwieldy by the tight bonds. Archer nodded.

"Excellent timing, Commander. Now, what do you recommend we do?"

With a jerk of the head Reed signalled his subordinates to the door. "It's not a suggestion I make often, Sir, but under the circumstances - run!"

They just made it out the door before all hell broke loose.

Assorted armaments hissed and spat in their wake, lancing green and yellow fire across the empty dirt plaza ahead. Tanner and Dowler turned on their heels, stumbling backward as they covered their superiors' backs and adding the deeper report of Earth's finest ordinance to the din. Amid the clamour of Mekronian voices, those of Antrum and Dikarum, clashing contradictory orders, rose clearly; then the boom of gunfire in a confined space. "Hurry!" Malcolm urged them.

"Enterprise!" Archer hollered, just restraining the urge to toss his communicator away as it crackled mockingly back at him. "They're jamming us!"

"It's a bit worse than that, Sir." Keeping his compact frame between his C.O. and approaching trouble, Reed spared his scanner the barest glance. "They've thrown up a force field 'round the square. Down!"

Later, he would take satisfaction from his captain's instant obedience. If he lived long enough.

More fire arched from across the government zone. Flat on his belly, Reed returned it with enthusiasm, inching across toward the cover of a low sandstone altar. "Sir!"

Maybe he'd been unfair to Dowler. The lad was waving agitatedly toward a round metallic device on the altar's back, his brown eyes wide. "Generator!" he explained in a hiss to the man panting at his side.

Instantly Archer raised his pistol and fired. The device erupted in a greenish haze, and immediately the agitated voice of Commander T'Pol quacked across the square. "Commander Reed, report! Enterprise..."

"T'Pol! Transporter, now!"

"Cap'n, you're too far apart!" Archer grinned at the sound of his best friend's voice, and he was acute enough to spy the marginal relaxation of his neighbour's posture. 

"Pull the others out first," he yelled, on his knees behind the square stone back-to-back with Reed, each man firing fast and hard. The whine of the transporter echoed around the compact square.

He just had time to take his finger off the trigger before it enveloped him. Disorientated, he lurched forward, the gun clattering onto the pad as his extended palms saved him coming home flat on his face.

"Y' alright there, Cap'n?" Tucker sounded breathless; as if he'd sprinted from the other side of the ship, not around the operator's console to heft his C.O. upright. One hand already pushed back through his gritty hair, Archer flashed him a quick grin.

"I'm okay. Malcolm..."

"Fine, Sir." Absently the Englishman glanced up from the damaged pistol in his hands, a familiar half-grin forming as he met his lover's narrow stare. "I assume we'll be breaking orbit imminently?"

"Soon as I get to the bridge, Commander." Archer gripped the younger man's arm, halting him when Reed would have turned directly for the door. "When did you figure it out?"

"The fake fire fight _was_ rather a giveaway, Sir." Reassured by a glance that the corridor was deserted, Reed met the direct question as it deserved. "There was always something _odd_ about the whole palaver, but it wasn't until then I realised what. I assume Mister Antrum directed the provocation from the outset?"

"Right from our first hail," Archer confirmed, scrubbing a grimy hand across his face. "When they figured minor provocations weren't getting the violent response they expected, he ordered an increase, day on day, waiting for us to snap."

"And when we decided to pull out instead of flayin' the whole population, he fixed a phoney fire-fight around your location," Tucker cut in sourly. "What did he expect us to do, Cap'n? Blow the whole compound to hell and killing you both?"

"He was willing to die to prove off-worlders can't be trusted, Trip." The older man gripped his friend's arm reassuringly. "People were questioning the wisdom of the Divines; even Dikarum was judging us by our actions, not some ancient prophecy. Antrum was getting desperate."

"He wasn't the only one," the engineer growled. "Hell, this was supposed to be an easy first contact!"

"I'm starting to think there's no such thing," the Captain replied, generously ignoring his Armoury Officer's mouthed _"starting!"_ "Maybe next time I'll be a little more suspicious of alien leaders with good intentions."

"Yes, Sir." Apart from the slight flaring of the nostrils, there was nothing about Lieutenant Commander Reed's attitude to suggest his patience had finally snapped. "And Porthos may develop warp drive. Permission to retire, Captain?"

Trip Tucker, trotting in his beloved's wake with a grin of Denobulan proportions stretching his jaw, could still hear Johnny's laughter when he reached the turbolift.


End file.
